


Tumblr Prompts (2019)

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multiple Pairings, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-17 14:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20622650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Responses and fills for all prompts received in 2019!A collection of pairings, all will be listed in the tags and in the chapter title. Tags, pairings, and characters updated accordingly. Most occur in the same AU unless otherwise noted.





	1. "You're in love with her." (Alistair/Cousland)

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue prompt fill: "You're in love with her." / Alistair

Nothing has changed, and yet everything has. 

A small shift in the air between them, something unidentifiable but familiar somehow. She looks at him differently - more fondly, perhaps, less… hard. Elissa’s eyes are always hard, all sharp, clever edges, but her gaze is soft when it lands on him.

The shadows that always seem to gather there, burdened with loss and leadership she didn’t ask for, seem to recede when they talk, when he can make her laugh - and oh, but the sound of her laughter. Alistair would do anything to hear it and frequently does. It’s not laughter at his expense, which is somewhat puzzling at first - never to demean him, never out of pity.

She laughs because she is happy, and that’s his doing, and he may never stop marveling at it.

In the glow of their campfire, her hair is as dark as the night sky stretched above them. It falls loose about her shoulders, framing her face. Her eyes are bright and untroubled, somewhere between green and blue and dark in the firelight. Her mouth curls into a smile when she catches him looking, and he has to remind himself to draw his next breath.

He wants to kiss her again and again, and always.

_You’re in love with her_.

At the time, he’d balked and squirmed his way out of the conversation, but even now Leliana gives him a knowing smile from her seat across the fire. Is she that perceptive, or is he just being obvious? Can Elissa see it too?

He wants her to. Doesn’t want her to, because she might not feel the same. Still, the sigh she’d made when he kissed her lingers in his ears.

_You’re in love with her_. Maker help him, he _is_.


	2. "You're in love with her." (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue prompt fill: "You're in love with her." / Genevieve Trevelayan

Everything has changed, and yet nothing has.

Genevieve doesn’t know what to do.

She always has some idea. She is a font of decisions on most everything else, but here she is completely out of her depth and it’s terrifying and exhilarating and absolutely senseless.

Today, Elissa is stoic again. She’s laced herself back up, straightened her back, and pushed forward like a battering ram. Like she always does. There’s a careful wall behind her eyes that she’s spent all night building again, and Genevieve aches to know even a taste of the hurt that lies beyond.

Elissa won’t look at her. Like she’s ashamed, like she wants to forget. But Gen remembers her weight pressed to her side, dark strands tangling around her fingers as she stroked through her hair. A touch Elissa normally wouldn’t have allowed, but one that she desperately needed.

Still needs. Genevieve doesn’t dare to offer that kind of comfort in the harsh light of day, but her fingers itch to touch, and she can’t stay away. Under the guise of visiting the tavern, she watches Elissa training in the courtyard, watches her grit her teeth, sweat on her brow, hair pulled back. The lines of her body are always controlled, always purposeful. She is more weapon than woman.

Much as she tries to appear neutral, she is rooted to the spot as she watches. It is Cassandra that breaks her from her trance, eyeing her carefully, appraising.

“I know that look,“ she says, and Gen startles.

“I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about,” is the response that falls out of her mouth, but it sounds weak. Far be it from her to argue with a Seeker of Truth, but she doesn’t want to hear what Cassandra has to say.

“You’re in love with her.“ A bold statement, but Cassandra speaks it quietly, closely, almost hesitantly.

Genevieve shakes her head, quick, decisive. “I respect her.” Because she does, and that’s all she can do. She cannot accept anything more, and neither would Elissa.

“You respect each of our friends, yet you do not look at them like that. You are… different, together. More relaxed.”

Genevieve opens her mouth and closes it again, lost, unsure how to deny this because it’s true. For a moment she only gapes, tears her eyes from the training yard, clears her throat a little louder than she intends. “I, ah. Noted. I was just coming to get a drink,“ she mutters, vaults away, ducks into the tavern to catch her breath.

Cassandra is right, and there is nothing that Genevieve can do about it.


	3. "Lie to me then." (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue prompt fill: "Lie to me then." / Elissa/Genevieve

Elissa suspects that something is going on, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. Genevieve is always moving, always has something to say, but these past weeks her smile doesn’t meet her eyes. She is still more often. Elissa worries.

But tonight, Gen is careless. She doesn’t get out of the bath quickly enough, and when Elissa tops the stairs her breath is caught. Sickly green tendrils are wrapped halfway up Genevieve’s arm, glowing faintly, pushed up from the Anchor in her hand.

When Genevieve notices her standing there, she doesn’t meet her eyes. “Elissa, I—“

“You should have told me,” Elissa breathes, but it isn’t her first thought. She crosses to the bath, and drops beside it, knees hitting the stone with little regard to the pain lancing up her legs. She takes Gen’s arm carefully in her hands, turning it over; it looks even worse at the inside of her wrist.

She skims her fingers over the veins, burned through with Fade, Genevieve shudders and flinches away, drags her arm away with great difficulty. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Elissa looks up at her, throat constricting as she tries to push words out. “When were you going to do something about it?” She would be shouting if she could breathe, but her lungs won’t work and her heart is beating frantically against her ribs.

Genevieve shifts forward immediately, her good hand coming to rest against Elissa’s cheek. She barely feels it – her skin is too tight and she can’t stop shaking. Gen is making soothing sounds near her ear, and she has to take great gulping breaths to calm herself enough to even hear them.

Gen doesn’t speak, but she’s humming, stroking through her hair, over her cheek. She presses her forehead against Elissa’s, eyes squeezed shut just as tightly until the shaking recedes and Elissa’s breath returns to something approaching normal.

When she realizes that she has Elissa’s attention, she retreats. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, but it tears through her as if it’s been shouted. “I should have—oh, Elissa, I don’t know what to do.”

Something about her tone allows Elissa to make the final push past the initial rush of fear. She can’t quite make words come, doesn’t know what she would say if she could.

“Tell me it’s going to be okay,” Genevieve asks, eyes wide and fixed, and Elissa doesn’t know that it will, because when has it ever been?

“I can’t.” Her gaze is bare, and she can’t hide her own fear.

“Lie to me, then.”

Elissa takes a shaky breath, and it doesn’t feel right. The words are uneasy, no confidence behind them, but she does the best that she can. She gingerly lifts Gen’s damaged arm again, presses a kiss to the ragged edge of the Anchor on her palm. “We’ll find a way to make it okay.”


	4. "You're in love with her." (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue prompt fill: "You're in love with her." / Elissa Cousland

Leliana offers a letter from Zevran and a cup of tea, and Elissa would be hard-pressed to turn down either. Still, she knows that this is not the reason Leliana has invited her to the rookery. What that might be eludes her.

She reads the letter with a distant sort of fondness for her old friend, but she is not halfway through before Leliana is pressing the real issue. 

“I’ve noticed that the Inquisitor spends a lot of time in your office.” She is not looking at Elissa, eyes fixed on some distant point out of the nearby window, but Elissa still feels as though she’s being stared down.

“Genevieve enjoys talking,” she says as if it wasn’t obvious. “Listening is sometimes a welcome distraction.“ 

Leliana inclines her head. “But you are often on the grounds together as well. She seems fond of you.”

Elissa tries to keep her face neutral. “She considers my advice invaluable for reasons I cannot fathom.” Her evasion will only get her so far, she knows.

“There is more to it than that, no? You speak more with her. Laugh more.” She turns, eyes fixed on Elissa, allowing her no escape. “This feels familiar. You’re in love with her.”

Elissa’s squeezes her eyes shut, face burning, breath short. No. “I can’t be.“ 

Leliana moves to sit across from her, hands clasped before her as she regards Elissa. “What’s stopping you?”

It’s a fight to open her eyes, and when she does, she feels more exposed than ever. Her brow furrows, breath catching on the words as she returns her old friend’s stare. “I _can’t_.”

“Oh, Elissa.” Perhaps once, a long time ago, Leliana would have reached out and taken her hand, reassured her with soft words. Now, all she offers is a look that isn’t quite so sharp. “Not all of your stories have to end in tragedy.”

The short, mirthless laugh that rips from Elissa’s throat surprises even her. “And yet they do.” She swallows around the lump in her throat, stands, pressing the half-finished letter back onto the desk. Another time. “A pleasure, as always.” 


	5. "This is why we can't have nice things." (Alistair/Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue prompt fill: "This is why we can't have nice things." / Alistair/Cousland

The inn they’ve chosen to stop at for the night is not crowded. A few regulars from this small, sleepy village eye them suspiciously as they enter, but once money has exchanged hands the room relaxes. 

They have two rooms, which will do nicely for the four of them (they are minus Morrigan, Wynne, Sten, and Elissa’s mabari, loathe as she is to leave her outside). There is also warm food and a round of drinks, and Elissa relaxes surprisingly quickly after days of walking in heavy plate and sleeping on rocks and roots. 

Before long she is laughing at something Zevran says, turning her face into Alistair’s shoulder as she does. His arm around her shoulders is a comfort that armor rarely affords, and she is awash in warmth, pressed to his side.

It’s only an hour, perhaps, before they become too tired for banter and stories. They’ve been a long few weeks on the road, after all, and the call of a soft mattress becomes more pressing with each passing moment. As they grow quiet, as Elissa is tempted to slip off and crawl under the blankets and never come out again, she can’t help but hear the talk around them. 

“– from Highever yesterday. Teyrn Howe’s put them back in their place, as he should.” 

_Teyrn Howe_. In half a moment, Elissa’s good mood has evaporated. She straightens almost painfully, shoulders tight, and searches the room for the man who made the comment. He’s one of three leaned over a table not four feet away. There is a pin at his throat, a bear on gold and white and suddenly, _red_. 

There is a hand at her back, perhaps a question in her ears but she doesn’t hear it, stands without a thought. Leliana reaches for her, a warning, but she steps around her as well, intent on her purpose. 

“‘Teyrn Howe’? Is that what he’s calling himself?” She doesn’t recognize her own voice. The man gives her an annoyed look, a dismissive look, and Elissa’s stomach constricts with sudden, inescapable anger. 

A second man to his right sneers at her over the rim of his mug. “It’s what everyone’s calling him. It’s his now, innit? Cousland’s gone and his pups with him.” 

There is a hand on her shoulder, perhaps Alistair’s - she respectfully declines to heed the warning that it offers. Before she realizes what she’s doing, her fist collides solidly with the second man’s face, a satisfying crunch under her knuckles. And then the room is roaring.

–

Sometime later, after the haze has cleared from Elissa’s eyes and her blood is no longer boiling, she feels hollow and foolish. Outside their tent, the crickets are chirping away serenely. Inside, she’s met with a hard stare as she presses a damp cloth against a bleeding cut on Alistair’s brow. 

He winces at the pressure but doesn’t pull away.

Wynne refuses to mend their wounds for Elissa’s foolishness. Elissa finds no fault in this, only a twist of regret that she’s made Alistair suffer too. There’s blood on his knuckles and on hers as well, and a bowl of freezing river water between them. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, small for all of her stupid bravery. 

He nods, eyes downcast, and she moves the cloth to sooth a purple bruise rising along his jaw. “They deserved it,” he mutters. 

Elissa huffs, a sound not at all like a laugh. “Maybe so, but I should have thought first.” 

“Maybe so,” Alistair agrees, though they both know that he is no better. Only, his weapon of choice is a sharp tongue, and it tends not to get them thrown out of places. Especially not places with warm, soft beds. He grits his teeth, fingers freezing as he cleans the blood from them, and sighs. “This is why we can’t have nice things.” 

Elissa snorts, ashamed, and goes to work on her own hands. “I can’t argue with that.”

“Oh? I disagree. I’m positive you could argue about anything,” he replies smoothly, and Elissa admits that he isn’t entirely wrong.


	6. "It's three in the morning." (Solas/Lavellan) (No AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue prompt fill: "It's three in the morning." / Solas/Lavellan (No AU)

She has become familiar with the way Skyhold feels at night. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath, like a beast at rest. Shadows banished by the light of day coalesce across the grounds. The moon may be bright, might reflect off the snow-capped peaks around them, but it lends no light inside the walls.****

Often she finds herself wandering, always above. The battlements, her balconies, even sometimes the garden roof - anywhere she can look down, anywhere she can be apart from the living thing that Skyhold has become.

Tonight, the battlements; the top of a tower on the western side of the castle, usually unmanned. No guards milling below, not watching her or watching for her. She can stand peacefully, looking out beyond the castle, to the peaks and the valleys of the mountains beyond. On this side, there are no armies, no camps or fires. Only clean snow and jagged peaks. 

It is cold, but she is not. 

“You are troubled.” His voice shakes her from her trance but doesn’t startle her. She heard him coming, light footsteps and the quiet whisper of cloth.

“You must be as well, or you’d be in the Fade right now,” she says, fights back a smile as she half-turns to look at him. Solas doesn’t change much, always that impeccable facade firmly in place, but she likes to think that his eyes are alive when he looks at her, even if she should perhaps not like it quite so much.

“My sleep was uneasy, as though I sensed some disturbance.” He steps up beside her, close enough to touch, but her fingers are firmly planted on the stone before her. “It is very late, vhenan.”

She looks up at the sky, judging the position of the moon. Leans closer, because she can’t resist the magnetic pull of him even if she doesn’t know what lies beyond that polite, stoic mask. “It’s three in the morning. That isn’t so bad.” Her attempt to be flippant falls stale. 

“Too early, then. Perhaps I can offer some assistance?” Always, when he watches her, she feels like a rabbit in a snare, fearing not death but something much larger and perhaps more unknowable. She can feel his gaze on her now and it makes her fingers itch, her cheeks tint darker. 

“It… wouldn’t be unwelcome.” It’s the wrong thing to say, but it is rather late after all. The part of her that is in charge of caution has long since stopped asserting itself. “What did you have in mind?” 

A moment’s pause. He’s considering, weighing what he might say next. For a moment she worries that he meant her to decline, but why come all the way here for that? A second before she opens her mouth to apologize, recant her words, he offers her his hand. 

“There are many interesting memories of this place in the Fade, if you would walk with me there.” She meets his eyes and the sincerity, the liveliness of his gaze holds her trapped. He is excited to show her, and she can’t stop thinking of the last time they walked in the Fade together. 

“I’d love to,” she says, quiet, breathless. Perhaps she is less interested in the memories than she is in the man, but that concern has no place here. She takes his hand, marveling at the chill of his skin, and allows him to lead her where he wills.


	7. ... a deeper, more passionate kiss. (Alistair/Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss prompt fill: "One person stopping a kiss to ask "Do you want this?", only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss." / Alistair/Cousland

The final night of a long march has finally settled around them. No time for anything else these past few days, urgency spurring them forward relentlessly; now, close to their destination, they can afford to relax.

When Alistair announces that he’s off to collect wood for the fire, Elissa immediately volunteers to accompany him. He can hardly hear her footsteps beside him for his heart hammering in his ears, a relic of insecurity he’d thought long-since shrugged off. Apparently, it’s not so easy to be sure when it comes to her.

The moment they are truly alone, her hand finds his. A small tentative brush ends with their palms pressed together, fingers laced, and his heart quiets a fraction. Another few seconds and she’s pulling him to a stop alongside her. 

Elissa turns, a single cursory glance back towards the camp before she’s taking his other hand as well. “It’s been a long week,” she says, and he can barely see her brows drawing together in the low light. “I’m sorry we haven’t had time to talk, or– I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you.” 

Her eyes are wide and earnest when she looks up, a darker tint across her cheeks. Alistair can count on one hand the number of times Elissa has been uncertain about anything. “Of course not.” He offers her a small smile. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but she seems to flush deeper before she returns it. “What we’re doing is important, and I–” 

Very suddenly, she is pressed against him, and all of the air is gone from his lungs. 

They’ve left all of their heavy plates back at camp. For the first time, there is only cloth between them. Alistair can feel the heat of her, the strength even in her softness, and he feels nearly dizzy with it. 

Elissa’s arms are around his neck, urging him down gently to meet her - even on her toes, she can’t quite reach. He happily complies. The first kiss they’d shared left him warm and breathless, but somehow this one is better; it’s so easy to fall into the plush give of her mouth, to get lost in the feel of her pressed against him. His hands are at her waist before he realizes he’s put them there.

She follows with a second, and then a third, all chaste, soft kisses that leave him reeling. When she finally pulls back a fraction - just enough to speak, to breathe - her breath comes short. Alistair presses his forehead to hers, a hand in her hair, and tries to get his lungs to work. 

When she speaks, the words are quiet and Alistair almost doesn’t hear her over the crickets, his own ragged breathing, the sounds of the forest around them. “Do you want this? Do you want us?” 

The question throws him. _Maker, yes_. Of course he does - he’s rarely wanted anything more than he wants to be near her. But more than that, she’s asking permission. She’s giving him a chance to say no.

For perhaps the first time, he can define how he is treated and what he will allow. He can decide for himself.

Alistair’s stomach gives a strange lurch as the realization settles. In the next moment, he tugs her in again - perhaps rougher than he intends, but the small sound she makes is a reward for it. When he meets her this time, it is not so chaste.

Elissa tilts her head, slotting them together more firmly. He is bolder than before, begs to taste her, and her mouth falls open with one of those breathy sighs that he cannot get enough of. He hears himself answer with a noise he can’t classify; her fingers are pushing against his scalp, grasping at his hair, and her tongue is rolling against his. 

He wants this _always_.

When they finally part again, it is completely dark in the trees. There is a small bruise along his jaw in the shape of her mouth, and his hands have wandered into dangerous territory. They have failed to collect any wood for the fire thus far, but Alistair feels like he could ignite at any moment.

“So,” Elissa says, smile plain in her voice. “Is that a yes?”


	8. Tentative Kisses in the Dark (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss prompt fill: "Tentative kisses in the dark." (Elissa/Genevieve)

Elissa doesn’t know how they ended up here. She doesn’t remember falling asleep, hardly remembers laying down, but when she wakes Genevieve is still fast asleep next to her. 

Usually, their talks carry them well into the night. Elissa feels more at ease here in the quiet dark, and Genevieve is always happy to listen and talk about anything at all. Somehow they’d moved from the fireside to Elissa’s bed, burrowing under the blankets and furs to escape the chill seeping into the room. She doesn’t know why that seems like a good idea in the middle of the night, but here they are, and Elissa’s heart is ready to pound right out of her chest.

Gen is facing her, completely relaxed and huffing soft little snores. Her hand is in the space between them, and at some point Elissa has found it in her sleep, her own fingers threading through Genevieve’s. 

It’s still dark, and the fire has died. It’s still terribly cold. Elissa doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to break this moment, but she worries about what it means.

They’ve shared a single kiss, and neither of them has quite had the courage to approach the subject again. Now, with Gen so close and warm, taking her breath, it’s hard to resist the urge she’s been suppressing since that first kiss. 

For a moment she is content to lay here with Gen’s hand cradled in hers, the other woman’s constant movement stilled. For a moment, she can close her eyes and enjoy the feeling. 

And then she’s shifting, pressing forward. She reaches out, tentative, and brushes a stray hair out of Gen’s face, pressing the golden waves back where they’ve spread across the mattress. But her fingers don’t leave, and she can’t bring herself to stop, running her fingers through Gen’s hair over and over again, soothing her in her sleep. 

Genevieve doesn’t even stir.

The casual touch feels natural but strange. It’s been a long time since she’s felt the need to touch anyone like this. After several long moments, she moves her fingers down to the delicate curve of Genevieve’s jaw, the round of her chin. 

Before she can stop herself, before she can talk herself out of it, Elissa leans forward. She presses a soft, tentative kiss to the corner of Gen’s sleeping mouth. It’s only a brush of mouths, really, nothing so substantial as they shared before, but she can feel her face heating all the same, her heart frantically attempting to break free of her ribcage.

Another, firmer kiss in the same spot, then down to her jaw, the tip of her nose. Finally, Elissa kisses her fully, presses her lips to the soft give of Genevieve’s for a brief moment. 

And Genevieve, whom Elissa assumed was asleep, tilts her head, slanting their mouths together, and wraps an arm around Elissa’s shoulders to keep her there. She makes a soft half-asleep sigh, and Elissa answers by deepening the kiss, allowing herself to get lost in the gentle motion of their mouths. 

Genevieve is not quiet, because she never is. She makes a chorus of soft sounds, appreciative little moans when Elissa traces her bottom lip. Her mouth falls open on a sigh, and her breath hitches; she moves closer, pressing her legs to Elissa’s under the blankets, trying to squirm closer. 

Their kiss continues for minutes, or hours, or days; Elissa loses track of time, forgets her initial tentativeness. Her focus narrows to the plush press of Gen’s mouth, the little sounds that she makes, the warmth of her where they are pressed together.

And when they finally break apart, Elissa’s smiles feels like it could crack her face. Her cheeks ache with it, muscles so unused to it. Genevieve huffs a small, breathy laugh and pulls her closer, burying her face in Elissa’s neck. 

“Finally,” she whispers, punctuated by a small kiss to the edge of her collarbone. 

“How long have you been awake?” Elissa asks, slightly incredulous. 

“Longer than you have,” Gen purrs against her throat, and Elissa makes an indignant sound. “You were holding my hand in your sleep. I wanted to savor it.“ 

She wants to protest that it was Gen who was holding her hand, but Elissa supposes it doesn’t really matter after all. 


	9. Distracting Kisses (Cullen/Genevieve) (No AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss prompt fill: "Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead." / Cullen/Genevieve (No AU)

Genevieve wakes alone, sore, and freezing. Somehow, after months of living here, Cullen’s roof still hasn’t been fixed, and her bed partner seems to have wandered off. She is displeased.

It’s strange how easily she slept with someone beside her, even never having done it before. Strange how the lines of his body, so recently exhausted, fit against hers. How the beating of his heart, heavy and steady, pulled her into a sleep so deep she didn’t remember her dreams. 

But it’s still dark out, and Cullen is gone. His mantle is draped across a nearby chair, his armor hanging meticulously on the stand in the corner. She can only assume that wherever he is, he isn’t wearing much at all. 

She can see the faint glow from the fireplace below, flickering on the opposite wall. If she strains her ears, she can hear the scratch of a quill, slow and steady, and the occasional creak of his chair.

Genevieve gets out of bed, moves carefully across the floor and takes his mantle. Heavier than it appears, but it smells of him, and it makes her smile like a fool. She drapes it around her shoulders and carefully descends the ladder, knows that he can hear her, see her, and she is awfully exposed with so little fabric. 

When her bare feet touch the stone floor, one side of his mouth quirks up, scarred skin stretching, uneven - and this is the only acknowledgment she’ll get, because there is a stack of scrolls at his left and sheets of blank paper below the one he’s working on. The debris from earlier has been cleared away, desk carefully re-stacked, and he seems intent on working right now for some reason.

She only watches him for a moment. Without the armor, padding, and fur, Cullen seems… Smaller, but not less. Much like a cat with its hackles raised, he always seems more intimidating, more trouble than he’s worth to bother. 

The thin linen shirt he’s wearing now clings to his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to his elbows so he can write unimpeded. Strange that sleeves would bother him when gauntlets and vambraces didn’t.

“Is there something you need, Inquisitor?” He asks, and raises his eyes to hers, takes her in. The smirk tilting up the side of his mouth falters when he looks at her. For a moment, his eyes catch on the exposed skin of her thigh, the bare space between her breasts she hasn’t bothered to cover.

“There’s something you might be able to help me with, yes.” She shifts her weight, the movement just enough to hitch the fabric higher. For all of his bravado, his confidence in this, he can’t keep the blush from coloring his cheeks. 

Cullen watches her for another long moment and then returns to scratching out his orders as if she isn’t there at all. 

Gen makes an indignant sound and crosses to his desk, behind his chair, leaning her hip on the armrest. She is close enough to feel the heat of him, almost unnatural - he doesn’t look feverish, but still, she worries. 

“I should have sent these earlier,” he says, almost apologetic, before dusting the ink and rolling the page. 

“You were reasonably distracted.”

“Mm,” he agrees, and he doesn’t look particularly sorry about it. He begins a new page at once.

“You could find yourself distracted again,” Genevieve offers, running her hands along his shoulders, pausing to work out a particularly stubborn knot. She leans down and kisses the spot just behind his jaw, stubble rasping against her mouth. 

“Mm,” he agrees again, but this time it’s a purr, deeper in his chest. “But I’m rather busy commanding your armies.”

Gen grins, peppering kisses down his jaw, pressing her mouth briefly to the point where his pulse hammers, fluttering against her lips. “There are other things you could be commanding just now,” she murmurs, and his answer is a quiet laugh that resounds beautifully within him.

She continues on her path, lips red by the time she reaches the corner of his mouth. He makes a small sound and turns his head, finally pressing his mouth to hers, and she answers with her own soft groan. She shimmies closer, tries to press her advantage as long as she has his full attention.

His hand is on her neck, skimming down to her shoulder, pushing his mantle back. A moment later, his mouth follows, leaving sucking kisses down the pale column of her throat. When he reaches the hollow there, he pulls away again, resting his hand on her bare thigh. The flush across his face makes her think she’s getting somewhere, but then he’s reaching for his quill again.

Genevieve makes a frustrated sound and shrugs off his mantle entirely, heavy fur falling silently to the stone below. She wedges herself between his body and his desk, pouring herself into his lap. 

“Cullen,” she purrs, planting a knee on either side of his hips. “I’ve been trying to get you into bed for months. This can wait.” 

He leans back and relents because there’s little else he can do, but his eyes are molten. There’s a smugness playing about his mouth that leads her to believe he’s been winding her up on purpose, but his voice is soft when he answers her. “You’ve been… for months?” 

For a moment, Gen is at a loss. “Yes,” she says, frames his face with her hands, kisses the tip of his nose. “Yes. You are the worst.” 

But then he’s pulling her closer, smiling against her mouth, and Gen only has a moment to wonder how they’re going to navigate the ladder before she’s hopelessly lost.


	10. ... pressed to the top of the head. (Alistair/Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss prompt fill: "A kiss pressed to the top of the head." / Alistair/Cousland

Ostagar was not kind to them the first time around. The second time, it is downright cruel. It’s a crushing weight even now, even when they’ve left it in the distance. She can still see it, lingering on the horizon, huge and hulking and mean.**  
**

Elissa is at a loss.

She can’t get the smell of smoke off of her skin, out of her hair, no matter how she scrubs at it. It takes far too long in the near-freezing river, lye soap turning her hands rough, to make any headway. By the time she’s finished, the smell of _burning_ is mostly gone, but her skin is bristling red. 

She returns to camp feeling bare without her armor, too vulnerable, muscles aching with cold and exertion. They’ve been fighting all day, but her sword only works against half of the enemies they’ve faced. Her companions are quiet, and none look up at her as she passes.

Still, she doesn’t feel it as keenly as some might. 

There is a candle flickering in Alistair’s tent. The canvas is too thick to provide anything more than a suggestion of the light, but it’s enough. She hears nothing inside, but she knows that he cannot be sleeping. He rarely prefers to be alone. 

Elissa takes a deep breath and reaches for the modicum of strength she has left, curled tight, hiding against her spine. Her shoulders sag with the weight of it, but she manages to sound like herself when she calls his name, once, softly near the closed tent flap. 

For a moment there is no answer but a small shuffling. “Yes?” he says, finally, and his voice is thick. 

“Do you mind if I–?”

“Please.” There’s a waver in the word that removes the last of Elissa’s hesitation. She carefully crawls into his space, taking special care to secure the flap before she turns to him. 

It’s been months since she’s seen him quite this wrecked. His hair is mussed, sticking up at odd angles; there are furrows against his scalp where he’s been running his fingers through it. His eyes are shining in the light from the single candle, face red and blotchy. 

Across from his lie the sword and shield they’d salvaged today. Maric’s blade, dragonbone and glowing blue runes at its odd angles, and Cailan’s shield, hardly used. The perfectly painted Fereldan heraldry is still bright and beautiful and meticulously inlaid on the surface. 

They are finer arms than anything else they have available. It only makes sense to use them, though she knows it is distressing for him. Still, that’s not the reason he is upset now, and that understanding aches.

Alistair hardly moves, just slumps on his bedroll and watches her shift around like he’s about to get reprimanded.

Instead, she navigates around the sprawl of his long legs and rises to her knees once she’s found a place for them. She wraps him in a hug because there are no words that she might give to provide more comfort than this.

His response is immediate, burying his face in her neck, clutching at her. He pulls her closer still, an arm tight around her waist and the other across her back, holding her to him. 

Elissa relaxes into it, runs a hand through his hair. She gently pushes it back into place, making soft soothing sounds, trying to encourage him. She can understand only a shadow of this grief, how hard it hits here, of all places. The thought of returning to Highever sends her eyes prickling on her strongest days, and that’s a ghost she has not yet faced.

If she had ordered him to stay behind, he wouldn’t have heeded her. There was no way to spare him this. No matter how necessary, it tears at her. 

He calms slowly, shallow breaths turning deeper along her collarbone. The tears soaked into her tunic go cold but he doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t stop stroking through his hair. 

When he finally loosens his hold, raises his head, she cups his face and tilts his head down. He still smells like smoke, fire and blood and loss, but she presses a kiss to the crown of his head anyway, lingers there for a long moment. Her shaky breath is an apology for a burden she can’t take away and for the ones she must still lay upon his shoulders.


	11. Quit Smiling at Me. (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff prompt fill: "Quit smiling at me. I can't stop messing up my sentences when you look at me like that." / Elissa/Genevieve

Let it never be said that Genevieve Trevelyan is unprofessional. She is the picture of politeness, of kindness, of _likable_. Always put together, though seldom appropriate - and she carries that perfectly cultivated facade all the way back to their private chambers.

It’s strange to watch Genevieve in the field, working her proverbial magic on everyone she comes in contact with - merchants, nobles, barkeepers, and Chantry sisters all fall prey to her kindess, welcoming and warm. 

Elissa hasn’t had much chance to see it, and now that she has… it’s no wonder that the Inquisition makes fast allies all over Thedas. Between Gen’s easy manner and Josephine’s silver tongue, it’s no wonder that nations bow to them. 

And it’s a completely different story the moment they are alone.

Tonight, for instance, they are in Val Royeaux. Gen needed Elissa’s help dealing with a minor issue (that really could have been dealt with without her presence, but she isn’t going to turn down any time with Genevieve, even if she has to go to Orlais to get it). She’s never actually been to Val Royeaux before, a point of pride until this point. Spending the day lost in endless markets, traveling in carriages from one large, ridiculous estate to the next…

Elissa will be much more comfortable when they return to Ferelden. 

Tonight, Genevieve works from the large bed in the center of their rented room. There is a desk not three feet away, completely unburdened and ready to be put to purpose, and yet Gen chooses to sprawl over the bedspread. There are a half-dozen reports laying open in front of her, and she is carefully considering each one.

When she reaches a conclusion, she pops open the inkwell balanced on the bedpost and works on drafting a response. No rest for the Inquisitor, not even when she is away from Skyhold. 

Elissa watches her for a while, swirling a small crystal goblet of expensive Orlesian wine in her hand. It’s vile, too bitter, but Elissa sips at it anyway. It calms the nerves prickling just beneath her skin, and watching Gen at work keeps her head on straight. 

Genevieve glances up after about twenty minutes of scratching away at a reply, flashing Elissa a small, tired smile. “Quit smiling at me.”3

This, of course, causes Elissa to grin and duck her head. She hadn’t realized she’d been smiling at all, and her cheeks still color at being caught. “Am I distracting you?” She asks, perhaps bolder than she would be otherwise. How expensive is this wine? 

Gen can’t quite hide the quirk of her mouth, brushing her hair back out of her eyes and looking down again, scanning her work. “I can’t stop messing up my sentences when you look at me like that.” 

Elissa laughs, louder than usual, a sound she’s only now beginning to recognize. She rises and sidles to the bedside, picking up one of the reports open before her. “Oh, well, let me fix that. I can answer this one. What do you think we should do about… “ She pauses for a moment, squinting, and then absolutely butchers the name of the Orlesian Comte who sent it. 

Genevieve laughs, high and bright, and Elissa feels a small stab of satisfaction that for all of her politeness, few others get to hear that particular sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on Tumblr, @andrasste!


	12. ... tracing the other's lips (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss prompt fill: "One person tracing the other’s lips with a fingertip until they can’t resist any longer, tilting their chin towards them for a kiss." / Elissa/Genevieve

The closer they get to Corypheus, the harder it gets. There’s an iron band around Elissa’s lungs that tightens with each passing day, and sometimes she can’t breathe with it. Sometimes it presses in on her and she has to force herself to calm, deep breaths with her head between her knees. 

It occurs to her that perhaps she cannot see this through. 

But Genevieve is so full of life, and that helps most of the time. Tonight, she’s talking - explaining about something they’d come across in the Hissing Wastes, how the magic of it felt. Elissa is listening, but she’s mostly watching the way that Gen’s mouth moves with her words. 

She has such a full, pretty mouth, and Elissa can’t help herself - cross-legged on the lounge, pressed against Gen’s side, she has to reach out and touch. Gen only loses a beat, gives her a curious look and a bewildered smile before she continues with her story.

Elissa traces Genevieve’s full bottom lip with her thumb, a gentle touch, just barely skimming the skin. Gen’s lips are a little rough, chapped from a fortnight in the desert, but even that is endearing. 

“… it was freezing down there. There was a revenant inside–”

Elissa has to force herself to look up into Gen’s eyes, brow furrowed. “A revenant?” 

“Yes, it’s a–”

“I’m aware,” Elissa answers, clipped, harsher than she’d intended. “Gen, you shouldn’t-”

Gen rolls her eyes, lips curling into a fond smile. Despite the surge of anxiety she’s fighting, Elissa traces the shape of it, watches the motion trace lines on the skin around her mouth, a reminder that Genevieve is not as young and thoughtless as she makes out to be. She knows what she’s doing, and she won’t–

She tilts Gen’s chin towards her gently, revels in the way her lips part as she does. She leans forward, overcome and unable to resist the urge. Elissa has to think about this so she doesn’t imagine the alternative. Her kiss is soft, Gen’s mouth plush and perfect against hers, and she submits so beautifully to being distracted from her story. Her arms envelop Elissa, pulling her closer, and slowly, slowly, she can breathe again. 


	13. "Is that my shirt?" (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff prompt fill: "Is that my shirt?" (Elissa/Genevieve)

There was a time not so long ago when Elissa plainly ignored the horns that signaled the Inquisitor’s arrival at the gates. She’d continue her work, keep polishing her sword or her armor, and wait for Genevieve to call for her War Council as she always did when returning from the field.

Today, she is at the gate before the horn even sounds.

It’s been a long three months. Genevieve has been in residence for perhaps a total of two weeks in that time. Perhaps Elissa might have been afraid to be obvious at one point, but she’s received precious few letters in the past few weeks and she is desperate to see Genevieve well and whole. 

She hears Gen’s ungainly mount before she sees him. It’s an odd, rhythmic thumping on the packed dirt of the causeway, accompanied by a low-pitched braying noise - and then Gen comes into view, riding before her companions, her golden hair flying out behind her. 

Elissa’s stomach flops, and she carefully looks her over as best she can from the distance, from the loping movement of the nuggalope as it sprints. She’s checking for injuries, blood on her clothes, but finds none. Genevieve’s armored robes gleam, no dents or scuffs at first glance. 

She lets out a slow, shaky breath, nearly crumbling under the weight of her relief.

Genevieve’s smile is brilliant, brighter than the snow around her. She tugs the reins, slowing her mount to a stop as she comes upon the gate. In one smooth motion, she’s throwing her leg over the saddle and plopping down on the snow, red cloak billowing behind her as she folds Elissa into her arms, presses so tight that her breath comes shallow, an ache behind her ribs that is as persistent as it is old. 

Still, Elissa can hardly complain. She buries her face in Gen’s shoulder, breathing in the dusty-wet smell of her travels, the scent of lavender that always seems to cling to her. Gen is laughing because of course she is, leaning down to press her cheek to Elissa’s, skin unnaturally warm for the weather. 

“Did you miss me?” Genevieve asks, and Elissa scoffs because that’s the most ridiculous question she’s ever been asked. Her cheeks heat, aware that Gen’s companions are now riding past them. 

Elissa waits until they’ve passed to lean up on her toes. Part of her wants to stay something witty, but that’s far from her strong suit. Instead, she allows herself a moment of sincerity, of perhaps indignity. “Every moment,” she breathes, not quite a whisper, and she can feel the curl of Gen’s mouth against her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her smile. 

Finally, as if an afterthought, the deep peal of the welcoming horn rings out across the valley. Gen pulls back, face a little flushed, eyes bright. Her smile is nearly blinding. Elissa looks her over again, quickly, checking her for any sign of discomfort. She finds none, but her eyes catch on Genevieve’s elbow, on the shirt she wears under her robes and under her leathers. It’s a familiar, faded blue. 

“Is that my shirt?” She asks, touching the soft linen, nearly worn through with years of hard use.

Gen laughs again, giving her a quick kiss before taking up her mount’s reins. “Perhaps it is,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eye. “If you can sit through this Council without snapping at anyone, you might find out.” 

Suddenly, that seems a lot less likely than it did before. She shakes her head, a brief, fond smile tugging at her before she falls into step next to Gen, easily matching her longer strides. The hand not keeping her beast on the path is dangling at her side, and Elissa indulges for a moment, brushing Gen’s hand with her own, wrapping their fingers together for a brief moment before they reach the gatehouse.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she breathes, and she swears that Gen weaves a little closer, bumping her hip on the way past.


	14. "Stay with me forever." (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sappy Line prompt: "Stay with me forever." (Elissa/Genevieve)

Elissa is nearly asleep, eyes just fluttering shut. Her head is pillowed on Gen’s thighs, curled on the lounge as Gen reads from the latest installment of _Hard in Hightown_, and her voice has slowly faded into a lilting impression of words rather than any meaningful collection of them. Gen’s deft fingers run through her hair, massaging her scalp, bleeding the tension from her body. 

She doesn’t register when Genevieve stops reading, or when she puts the books aside. The next time she speaks, it’s nearly a whisper, so low that Elissa nearly nods off without hearing it. “Stay with me forever.” 

Elissa jerks awake as if she’s dreamed of falling, turning her head and blinking owlishly up at Genevieve. The look on her face is heartbreaking, honest, not a trace of teasing in the lines around her mouth. For a moment, Elissa only meets her eyes, can’t swallow around a lump in her throat. 

She sits up carefully, limbs slow to react even if her mind is hyperaware of the weight of Gen’s eyes on her, the catch in her own breathing. 

“Genevieve…” she trails off before she can speak, takes Gen’s hand in her own but can’t look at her, focuses on where Gen’s paler skin lies in contrast to her own. “I can’t… I won’t make that promise.”

Next to her, Gen stiffens. “Oh,” she says, and she’s never heard Gen sound quite like that before. “Oh, well, I– if you–”

“No,” Elissa breathes, squeezes Gen’s hand. “It isn’t that I don’t want to. It isn’t up to me, and I– I don’t like making promises I can’t keep.” 

Because she can’t, not really. Her time is finite, a clock ticking down since her Joining, and there’s nothing that she can do to stop it. Nothing that she knows of, and before now she hasn’t even considered the possibility. 

And until now, she’s been able to avoid thinking about it, selfish as that was. Genevieve has to know that she isn’t going to be here forever, that eventually her Calling will come and she will have to leave. 

Gen tilts her chin up with her other hand, and her look is open, vulnerable. Elissa can’t hide the flinch when she meets her eyes. She can feel her breath coming quicker, harder to draw breath, and she quakes, a foolish weakness she can’t stop. 

“Elissa,’ Gen says, and her blue eyes are darker somehow, raw with an emotion that Elissa can’t name. “We have resources beyond counting at our disposal. We can– we’ll figure something out,” she says, and she honestly believes it. Elissa tries to swallow and can’t quite manage.

“We shouldn’t use them for our own personal gain,” she finally sputters out, taking in great shaking breaths. “Even if it were somehow possible, there are more important things right now.” 

Genevieve sucks in a breath. “Of course there is. You’re always going to think there’s something more important. Perhaps we can talk to Dagna, or–”

Elissa shakes her head, thumb tracing a pattern over the back of Genevieve’s hand, doesn’t know who she’s trying to soothe. “The Inquisition isn’t made for this. There are a few people I know, but I haven’t spoken to them in a long, long time,” she says, feeling suddenly wearier than when she’d been nearly asleep. “I could do my own research, but I’d have to follow up in person. It would be dangerous, and we might lose altogether, and then I’d have spent years away from you.” 

Gen’s mouth is settled into an unhappy line. She doesn’t like to be told no, doesn’t want to accept it, and therefore she’s probably going to do her level best to find something anyway.

“Damn the Wardens,” Gen says, quiet, almost tentative. 

“Damn the Wardens,” Elissa agrees, forcing herself to breathe. “But Gen, I– I can’t promise, but that’s only because it’s not my choice. If it were up to me, I’d never leave your side.” It’s a startling admission, one of a type that Elissa doesn’t like making. They are alone, no one to hear her but Gen, and still she is embarrassed to have said it out loud.

Gen’s hand finds the back of her neck, pulling her closer, and presses her forehead to Elissa’s for a moment. “That sounds like it was ripped right out of a romance novel,” she teases, but her cheeks are flushed, pleased, tempered only slightly by her trepidation. Elissa makes a soft indignant sound. 

“It will be alright,” Gen continues. “It will be alright because we’ll make it so, no matter what we have to do.” 

Elissa gives her a stilted nod, though she isn’t quite sure she agrees that anything can be done. But Gen is determined to soothe her, determined to see it work. Elissa is only certain that if anyone could find a way to cleanse the Blight, it would be Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan.


	15. "I can't stay away from you." (Elissa/Genevieve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sappy Line prompt fill: "I can't stay away from you." / Elissa/Genevieve

Summer brings an unending string of visitors to Skyhold. When the many paths that lead up to the fortress are finally cleared for carriages, they are inundated with nobles, well-wishers, and problems that many believe only the Inquisition can solve. 

Each week, a new crop of Warden-Recruits shows up in the encampment below. Their numbers are increasing by twos and threes, slowly rebuilding. During the Blight, Elissa would have been overjoyed to find this much support, so many willing to flock to their aid.

Now, it seems like a punishment.

There is a small collection of bottles among the casks in the wine cellar. Harder liquors, special things meant only for individual use rather than use in the tavern. It’s cooler down here, set apart from the rest of the fortress, and it has the distinct advantage of being unknown to most of the people who filter through the main hall day in and day out. 

Elissa only means to requisition a bottle of some strong Fereldan spirit, but she takes a moment to breathe. The hush of the room is infinitely more welcoming than the bustle of life above. Once upon a time, people would purposefully avoid her. She almost misses that indifference.

When her head is a little clearer, a buzz under her skin settled, she eyes the shelf of premium bottles sent for the Inquisitor’s personal use. It’s laughable that anyone would offer to send Genevieve, of all people, a selection like this. They would remain untouched until the end of time if Elissa wasn’t slowly whittling them down.

She hears a small shuffling at the back of the cellar, and turns, curious. The casks are stacked in an almost labyrinthine pattern, a maze leading further into the room. The low ceiling muffles the sounds, but she can make out the rustling of pages.

Curiosity gets the better of her. 

She rounds a corner and finds that there is a small hollow tucked away against a wall. Genevieve doesn’t look up at her approach, completely wrapped up in the book in her lap. She’s found a blanket somewhere and tucked it around her, warding off the chill of the stone floor. A small flame flickers in her palm, shedding just enough light to read by. 

“Genevieve?” Elissa asks, quiet, and Genevieve nearly jumps out of her skin. The flame in her hand flickers out instantly, replaced by the cool blue of a magical barrier, thrown up before she can take her next breath. 

Gen’s hand flies to her chest, a reflex, an attempt to calm the frantic beating of her heart. “Void!” she breathes, looking up at Elissa with wide eyes. “What are you doing down here?”

“I can’t stay away from you,” Elissa says dryly, raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing down here?” 

“Hiding. I thought this would be the last place anyone would think to look. Apparently, I’m not as subtle as I believe.” Gen tucks her book between her hip and the wall, patting the blanket next to her. There’s nowhere else in the small alcove, so Elissa takes her up on her offer. They are close enough that their legs are pressed together, hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder. 

Elissa is unused to touch; it makes her skin feel too warm, too tight. “I wasn’t looking for you, just browsing your liquor shelf.” 

“Is it that bad up there?” Gen is smiling, but she isn’t joking. There’s thinly-veiled desperation in her eyes, a shake in her hands when she folds them in her lap. 

Elissa watches Gen’s long, delicate fingers twist for a moment before she glances away. There is a swarm of people in the courtyard, perusing the garden; Gen would be distraught at the way these new visitors trampled through her carefully-cultivated flower beds. “It’s very busy. How long have you been down here?”

Gen stiffens, every point of contact between them tense and hard. “A little over an hour. I… should get back up there, shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t want to keep the Marquis and his entourage waiting.” 

Elissa wants to offer comfort, but she doesn’t quite know how. “I think you should make him wait longer, personally,” she says, a poor attempt at humor, but Gen gives her a weak smile anyway. “This isn’t like you.” Genevieve isn’t usually this uneasy, and despite all of the times her friend has been there for her panic, her anger, her shaking fear, she has no idea how she can repay the favor.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Gen’s voice wavers, but she doesn’t elaborate. She might be good at helping others work through their feelings, but it’s clear that Genevieve is not practiced at expressing her own fears and concerns. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Genevieve is silent for a moment, considering. When she finally speaks, she does so quietly.“This was a lot easier last year. No one wanted to follow me around when I was the Herald of Andraste. I didn’t hold quite so many lives in my hands.” Her voice trails off at the end. She looks down into her lap, palms open, the sickly green glow of the Anchor flooding the semi-darkness.

Elissa makes a sudden, small motion; an attempt to take Gen’s hand in her own, or perhaps to lay a comforting hand on her thigh. At the last moment, she thinks better of it. She remembers this feeling vividly - the moment she realized that she could be responsible for the deaths of thousands, that her actions might affect people she’d never meet. 

“It doesn’t get easier,” she rasps, clears her throat when her voice catches. It isn’t particularly comforting, but there is nothing else she can offer. If there is a balm for the raw guilt that comes after deciding who lives and who dies, she is the last person who would know about it. “But you must learn to deal with it before it eats you alive.” 

“How did you deal with it?”

“I didn’t.” Elissa’s sighs, deep and weary, and fights the urge to hide her face. “And look where that led. I’m hiding down here, same as you.”

Genevieve makes a soft sound, though she can’t tell if it’s meant to be encouraging. There is a moment of silence. Gen’s body is tense against hers, fingers twitching. Slowly, as if she is afraid that she might scare Elissa away, she rests her head against her shoulder, solidarity and affection that makes Elissa’s throat feel like it might close.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Genevieve breathes, quiet, uncertain. She doesn’t mean this alcove in the wine cellar. Elissa tries to take a breath and loses it instead, afraid Gen can feel her small quakes, afraid to break this moment and afraid to continue. Suspended for what feels like hours in the way it feels to be needed, to offer whatever small comfort Gen finds in their closeness. 

She stitches her courage together and lays her palm lightly in the space just above Gen’s knee, thankful for the blanket and the layers of cloth between them. Her hands are sweating, nerves and something she doesn’t care to define, but Gen only makes a pleased sound and covers Elissa’s hand with her own.

Her heart feels determined to burst from her chest.

She stays there longer than she should. They are both motionless, breath synchronized, enjoying the quiet and the closeness - and then Gen shifts away, and Elissa can’t bring herself to look at her. “ You… you probably have more important things to be doing.”

Elissa nods, already moving to stand. It’s hard to remember what those important things are when her shoulder is still warm, every place they were pressed together buzzing, contented. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” Gen’s cheeks are tinged pink when she looks, and heat blooms across her face in answer. 

“Thank you,” Gen says, bright-eyed and hopeful. 

“You’d do the same for me.”


End file.
